An Artist Appreciates Only the Details
by ShadowCrest
Summary: It was a bad decision. I've no excuse. Yet how could I disregard the ailing women at my doorstep? Had I known then, the outcome, had I some way of foreseeing the horror that would ensue... then would I have denied her? No, for fear of never meeting him.
1. A Cry for a Savior

The Sherlock and Watson featured herein are a combination of both the movie and classic literature. I own only Allia Alanasry. Feel free to share pains and hates and woes and sorrows. I will giggle mastochistically at them all and smile sweetly will sipping the sickly sweet tea of arsenic. Enjoy.

**An Artist Appreciates Only the Details**

_**A Cry for a Savior**_

I was contacted by a grieving mother early one morning. When I say 'contacted' I am referring to a frantic beating on my door at some ungodly hour in the morning. And when I say 'some ungodly hour in the morning' it must have been around half past five. Any other day, this would not have bothered me so, but, seeing as how a freshly resolved case had required my unwavering attention for several days prior and I had only just fallen asleep for the first time in approximately 75 hours, half past five was a completely unreasonable hour for a barrage of thunder to suddenly roar through one's house. Still, if only to stop the torturous racket, I forced myself from the warm comfort of my bed and undulated down the stairs. I found myself caring very little over my lack of proper attire. If this customer was so desperate for my assistance, then they would simply have to ignore a young women's form scarcely hidden behind a flimsy nightgown.

Before the door was fully open, the frantic woman was suddenly storming through my house; a grating, high pitched voice screaming from convulsing lips. Immediately I deduced her to be in her mid thirties. She had married up some fifteen years prior, yet was still unused to the new wealth at her disposal. Preceding this marriage, she was a homely thing, possibly a maid, though more-then-likely a mid-wife. She moved with slight stiffness of her abdomen, but not in the way a problem with either the muscular or skeletal structure would cause. My bet would be a series of scares marring her back, old but deep, from some long ago whipping. She was pretty enough, but beginning to show the worries of her life through fine lines on her forehead. Still, the more noticeable lines around the corner of un-painted lips proved her life to have been filled with more good than bad, as she smiled more often than not. That all being acknowledged, her present state warned of complete panic. Beneath a slightly soiled cloak was nothing more than a wrinkled dress, more than likely from being discarded to the floor the previous night, which had been quickly thrown over a silken nightgown of great value. Her face was void of any make-up, and her feet were covered with mere slip on wraps; the fastest thing she would find and adorn, I was sure. She had been woken suddenly with some horrible news and, desperate to reach me with all haste, had literally thrown on the most readily available articles of dress to allow her only the basic modesty required by the law before racing to a hastily tacked horse and carriage. And still she was spouting a thousand things at once that echoed deafening through the once quiet house.

"Madam, if you wish for me to understand what you are saying, then pray shut up for just a moment." I muttered impatiently. A spark of rage flared across her face that nearly prompted me to show her to the door with a few choice words and give her problems not a second thought. Instant, though, she held her tongue and was still for just a few seconds before silent sobs wracked her trembling form. She was no longer used to people talking down to her, and, now being of high status and having known the degradation of being so addressed, nothing outraged her more than to be belittled so. Thus noted, her willingness to accept my demands sparked my interest. What could be so important that she would withstand something for which she had such loathing? Ah, a child.

"Now, slowly and simply, for I am with little rest and, therefore, little patience tell me what has distressed you so?" I spoke calmly; the most assurance I would give the frantic women, and precisely the type of assurance she currently required. She started to speak, but the word was strangled in her throat. She swallowed hard and ground her teeth to regain control of her voice before trying again.

"My daughter has been taking." She finally managed; broken and desolated. Before I could dismiss it was nothing more than a child's misdemeanor, she withdrew a note from her cloak and shoved it into my hand. "This was attached to a brick that shattered my window." It stated simply,

_You bred her well. Thanks for the donation._

The paper was made from a local mill and the ink cheap and common. Nothing worthwhile could be ascertained from the note itself other than the fact that her daughter had indeed been taken, with no intent of being returned. And, as the mother must already have concluded, the girl was chosen for her physical characteristics. This was not the first girl to have been taken. Eight in total, had gone missing in the past few months from streets of Britain; mostly from humble families who could do nothing about it. I was aware of the disappearances, but was occupied with other things and thought little of them. Now, of course, there was an actual case to be solved. Surely the abductions were related.

"When was she taken?"

"She was to stay at a friend's last night. They say she never arrived. It must have been around five when she left." To my relief, the woman was answering quickly and directly.

"How old?"

"Fourteen, nearly fifteen." Same as the others.

"Alright, I'll need the both your address and the address of her destination. Have you noticed anyone strange lurking about as of late?" I asked, regardless the likelihood of a worthless answer. Either, she wouldn't have noticed and, therefore would create strangeness out of nothing, giving me false and time-consuming leads, or whomever she commented on would be long gone and her descriptions would fail to give me anything strong enough to pursue. Again, her answer surprised me.

"No." Though it told me just how desperate she was for me to find her daughter, it helped me very little with the case. Either her skills of perception are, as more than probable, inadequate, or the kidnapping was unplanned.

After assuring her that I would find her child in a timely manner and ushering her out the door, I proceeded to retrieve proper attire and forced my complaining body back out into the chilled air of late-fall Lambeth. The day proved long, but rewarding. I discovered just how similar the victims truly were. All of similar age, though vastly differing backgrounds, and all taken within a mile radius of each other.

What I should have done was to finally allow my body the rest it so desperately needed before acting on the plan that had already formulated in my mind. I should have at least eaten a decent meal before adorning the appearance of a young girl. More than anything, I should have checked the ammunition in the pistol I always had stashed away beneath my undergarments. But, I did none of these things because I was nearly certain of the cause for the girls' abductions. A sex scandal.

I succeeded in getting myself captured by the owners of said scandal. I also succeeded in freeing myself of their measly restraints once they had taken me to their base of operations; an abandoned building in London along the river near St. Paul's Cathedral. With a few, well placed strikes, I incapacitated the men that had taken me and proceeded to release the girls trapped within the cells in the basement. That's where my success ended. As the girls fled the building, I then went in search of the kingpin. I found him. He was with the women's daughter. He had yet to do much more than strip her, and for that I was grateful.

The man called for his guards. Footsteps echoed from elsewhere on the floor. Acting quickly, I swung my leg into the man's left knee, weak from what I assumed to be a fishing accident based on the rope burns on his arms and hands, and several scars unique to have a fishhook torn from one's skin. This blow knocked him down just long enough for me to untie the girl's limbs. Without another word, she ran from the room.

The next five minutes quickly escalated from interesting to inconvenient to inescapable. It was then that I came to learn on my pistol's uselessness. And of my body's weakness. I took down a few of them, at least. And the girls were free. That was my last thought before being struck over the head and dragged into the darkness.

I wish I could say that the first day was the worst, but that would be blasphemy. The first day was merely an introduction. The kingpin was angry. I came to truly fear his anger. From the very center of my marrow, I feared his anger. And the angry crack of the whip. How they loved to hear a pain filled cry. Nine fell by my hand the first time they came to my cell. I was confident five would never rise again. A whisper in my mind contemplated how that should have bothered me, but, when they tied my hands above my head and my legs to the floor, when they brought out the whips and knives and paddles, when they laughed as they ruined my body, the whisper stopped.

It was, indeed, a sex scandal. They captured young women. Some they sold to the highest bidder; others were kept in the cells in the basement as prostitutes. There were no rules as long as the customer was willing to pay. They were allowed to use the girls as they wished, even kill them if they could afford it. Almost all of the men that tried to 'rent' me, left with black eyes, broken bones, or bite marks plenty deep enough to bleed. At first, I was shocked at the men that entered my cell. Some I knew of from reputation; a few had hired me personally. Judges, doctors, policemen. Some I greeted by name. Generally, they ignored whatever history we had; they had paid good money, after all; why shouldn't they get what they paid for? After a few weeks, my body started to fail me.

My continuously injuring his clients was starting to hurt his business. The ropes that held me were replaced with wires and he began supplying the customers with weapons, encouraging them to 'teach me a lesson.' They cut my food ration; if the rotten muck they occasionally forced into my gullet could be called food. The beatings and starvation and cold took their toll on me.

After a month, I started to black out. They pain had become so constant, I was almost able to ignore it. But then they would return. And they tore open old wounds and left several new ones. And they would beat me until the room spun. And they would use my body for their own sick pleasure. I came to yearn for the blessed release of unconsciousness. There was no pain there. My mind became a pendulum between insanity and hopelessness. Trapped in the darkness, I couldn't separate the present from past; or the past form fiction. Occasionally I would feel cold fingers press into my neck, feeling for a pulse.

At some point, I stopped listening for the ring of the church bells. I stopped calculating how long I had been their prisoner. I lost track of the day and night, and, with it, reality. Vaguely, I realized how near I was to dying. With more clarity, I realized I longed for it. Death. The ultimate release. How happy I would be to merely cease. For the pain to stop without the horror of knowing that, when I next woke, it would begin again. Yes, I wanted to die. But then they made a mistake. They brought in another girl.

I could hear her desperate pleas as they shackled her in the neighboring cell. My mind started to falter but, for the first time in months, I fought it. I fought to force my senses to work. Four men. Two heavy-set, one of which had a slight limp. The other two were small; they would cause me the most trouble. The jingle of keys. The sound of freedom. They believed me to be weak; comatose. Weak, I was, but there was enough left in me to free the girl.

I began to whimper and plead. Absent murmurs of desperation that they loved so. To my delight, they heard me and quickly finished locking the chains before coming to my cell. They called me delirious a mad. A hand. My body involuntarily shied away, sending a surge of agony through my broken body. They laughed. Always they laughed. Take out the smaller ones first. They're likely to be more agile and indigent. The bigger ones are more likely to fight than run. If they run; if they bring in reinforcement than it's useless. Before they could react, my hands tightened around the cords restraining my wrists and I tucked my knees into my chest before kicking the skinny men hard in the throat. The delightful crack of their hyoids echoed through the room. The other two started to retaliated. I managed to catch the big one's neck between my legs and, with a hard twist that dug the wire into my hands and wrists, broke his neck. The last one had the limp. And a knife. Enraged at the ease with which I eliminated the other men, he came at me. I kicked him hard in the jaw, temporarily disorientating him. In a frenzy, he wildly flung his fist at me. I rolled around it, but couldn't dodge his other attack. My abdomen screamed in agony as the icy blade dug into my stomach. Without giving my body time to register the full extent of the damage, I smashed my heel into the man's nose.

As I'd hoped, he dropped straight down, but he tore the dagger from my side as he fell. But I couldn't stop. More would come. Trembling, I grabbed the keys with my toes and flipped upside-down to grab them with my hands. Body shaking from the cold and pain and adrenaline, I struggled to unlock my restraints, but, finally, they released me and I slid to the icy ground. My shoulders screamed and my joints ached, but I managed to force my muscles into obedience and I struggled to my feet. Already, I was panting; each hurried exhale creating a puff of frost before me. Don't think about the blood streaming down your stomach. Disregard the overlapping crisscrossed gashes of your back. Ignore the dislocation of your shoulders. Forget about the agony of your wrists. There's work to be done.


	2. Don't Be Afraid, It's Only for a While

I've a touch more chapters written, but shall sadistically withhold them until some feedback is given... or until I get bored again and decide to post them.

**An Artist Appreciates Only the Details**

**_Don't Be Afraid, It's Only for a While_**

Limping and hunched over, I stripped the men of their weapons; two pistols and a dagger, and made my way out of my cell and was happy to see the girl's door still ajar. She cried out when I first entered, but her frightened exclamation quickly became frantic pleas. My shoulders screamed in protest as I forced my arms above my head to unlock her shackles.

"Listen to me," I ordered as I fought my deteriorating body, "are there any more?" Terrified, she tried to understand. "When they brought you down here, did you hear or see any other women?" I clarified, finally managing to free her wrists. To my horror, she nodded.

"One's in the cell by the stairs and I heard crying on the second floor." Her voice quavered. Could my body even make it up the stairs to the first floor?

"Alright, hurry and get home. Don't go to the hospital. Don't talk to the police. They're in on this." Fresh horror lit in her eyes. "Just go home and forget about all of this. I'll take care of it." I assured her, shocking myself at the strength in my own words. After a brief hesitation, she nodded and ran.

Darkness threatened to steal over me. I ground my teeth and staggered toward the door. The hallway seemed impossibly distorted as it undulated beneath my feet. Leaning heavily on the wall, I somehow managed to reach the staircase. There was a door to the right. I collapsed against it and forced key after key into the hole until the door finally popped open.

"Hey!" Male. The women hung, unconscious, from the ceiling in blissful ignorance of what was being done to her body. Without a second thought, I fire the pistol and he fell. The women jolted awake. Without a word, I struggled to free her, but my arms fell limp to my sides. Luckily, she grabbed the keys from my failing grip and was able to free herself.

"Thank you." I had never heard such sincerity in all my life.

"Just go home." My voice was losing its authority. "No doctors, no police." I panted. She tried to help me, but I brushed her away. I would only slow her down, and the guards would be here any second. "Just go! Hurry!" With such pity, she looked at me, but still she placed the keys in my hands and fled.

Fresh blood seeped down my back and wrists. Again, I fought my way to the hallway. The stairs loomed before me, laughing at the impossible feat they posed. Grinding my teeth. I crawled up them. The women screamed. Each additional step seemed to get harder and harder. I could hear the women struggling to free herself and urged my limbs on. Finally, I peeked over the top step. Three men fought to subdue the women, while two stood to the side, watching. With the last two bullets of one of the pistols, I took them down. Leaving one man to deal with the escapee, two left the women to deal with me. With the other gun, I shot them in the head before firing the final bullet into the skull of the last men. Only three bullets each. I cursed them for their shoddiness. Still, because of those bullets, the women was free.

"Take their cloths." I ordered before she ran away. "And hide your face." If everyone believed her to be just another man meandering down the street, she would make it home without worry. Regardless my ordering her to go, she raided the men of weapons and gave them to me.

"I haven't your courage," she sobbed, helping me to my feet, "I can't do any more. I'm sorry." And she ran, leaving me with one more pistol and another dagger. I chuckled as I popped out the cylinder to see three bullets mocking me. With the keys looped around my agonizing wrist, the gun in one hand and a knife in the other, I started forward. My feet felt tacky with blood. The chaffing from my restraints would scar badly, if given the chance to heal. At that moment, it merely left bloody footprints in my wake.

To my right stretched the hallways that would lead to my freedom. Ahead of me rose another fleet of stairs. There were more women up there; trapped in the same horror that I had nearly lost myself in. I couldn't leave them. I made it halfway to the stairs before my legs caved. Even as the edges of my vision burned black, I crawled to the stairs. If only the room would stop spinning, my traveling would go much quicker. Regardless the difficulty, I managed to find the first step. And I began to agonizing climb.

Voices. Joking at first, then uncertain. Two of them. Then footsteps. I couldn't clear my mind enough to divulge any useful information from it, but I knew that they were coming. Eyelids flickering, threatening to close altogether, I raised the gun and waited. The first man rounded the corner and I fired. It was wide. Cursing, I pulled the trigger again. To my relief, he fell, only to be replaced by another, bigger man, pistol in hand. Only one bullet. I fire. The wall just inches from his head exploded in a shower of debris. Another gunshot and the man fell. Confusion. I couldn't understand. No time for that, now. I had to free the women. My hands slipped on the tacky puddle collecting beneath me on the steps, but I started to climb.

Hurried footsteps behind me. I clutched the knife desperately and fought to hurry. Hands. Voices. With an agonizing grunt, I lashed out with the knife. The sound of cloth tearing met my ears, but no more. The blade was torn from my grasp. They tried to retrieve the keys as well, but I refused to release them. With the last bit of strength I had, I rolled onto my back, tucked my knees to my chest, and kicked the thief hard in the chest; digging the steps torturously into my filleted back. Still, with satisfaction, I heard the grunt as the air fled his lungs and he toppled down the stairs. Someone chuckled.

"You alright, there, Watson?" A man asked. Watson… why did that sound familiar?

"I'm fine, just get the keys from her and put pressure on that wound!" he retorted impatiently. "She's going to bleed to death." I tried to struggle away, but a firm hand grabbed my arm and, before I could react, freed me of the keys. I spun quickly, hoping to catch him off guard with a hard strike to the nose, but he easily dodged it. Damn, a fighter. This man knew his way around the ring.

"Let me go!" I ordered, trying vainly to yank me arm from him, but the strain sent daggers through my shoulder, drawing a cry from me. He was saying something, but I couldn't understand anything over the roar of agony cascading from the retched joint. Can't stop. I looked desperately at the stairs. Only five more to go. There were more women up there. I had to free them. Was I mumbling?

"…not going to hurt you," I think someone said. The darkness was back. I couldn't fight it off. "…need to … hospital." Panic. No; no hospitals! Couldn't trust the doctors. They were the worst. They knew how to hurt but not kill. They knew how to torture but keep the darkness at bay. No hospitals! Please. I didn't know who I was pleading with, but I couldn't stop the murmurs as the room dipped violently beneath me. From a distance, I heard someone arguing. And the jingle of keys. And then warmth. For the first time in my life, I truly understood the wonders of warmth.

A fire crackled nearby, but my body trembled violently, agonizingly. With each spasm of a muscle, daggers burned into my flesh. I couldn't quiet the whimper and a shiver tore down my spine. A bed. I was lying beneath several heavy blankets on a bed. A man's nightgown stuck to my damp skin and agonizingly tight bandages seemed the only thing holding my body together. Voices were arguing in the neighboring room. Angry. It was always worse when they were angry. The women! Damn! Where was I? How long had I been out? Where were the keys?

Without thinking, I flung myself silently from the bed. Pain, white hot, shot from my raw ankles, my ruined back, and the deep cut in my abdomen. I nearly fell to my knees from the pain, but managed to maintain my footing. The voices continued seamlessly with their debate. Three doors and a window. Two stories from the main street. Heavy sleet fell outside. It was freezing. If I could just make it to a pub, then I could trick a man into assisting me before leaving him unconscious and unsatisfied in his room.

The voices came from the room to the left. The best bet would be to take the door on the far wall. Stepping as quietly as my unsteady legs would allow, I crossed the room, holding onto furniture for support.

"Blast it, Holmes, then what is it you want?" a man suddenly exclaimed. I hesitated. Holmes? I knew that name. Surely, I knew that name. Regardless, I forced my body to work again. The floorboard squeaked beneath me and terror stilled my limbs. As adrenaline flooded my body, I listened hard to the men in the other room. One was still talking, but there was a slight change in the manner of his speech; so slight, I wanted so to doubt I'd heard it at all, but it was there. And I ran. The door to my left flew open just as I my hand reached the knob to my freedom.

Two men entered the room. The taller man with the mustache favored his left leg, but his meticulous dress and aggressive stance was more than enough to warn of a military background. Yet the faint sent of iodine and alcohol lingered on him. Medical. A doctor. Couldn't trust him. The other man seemed much less uniform. Sloppy, almost. Several day old stubble shadowed his soft chin and cheeks, and his hair was anything but well kept. His stance was loose, malleable; ready for anything. A man trained more from experience than profession. But it was his eyes that astonished me. Measuring, estimating, calculating. Something about him seemed childlike, yet there was such sadness in his eyes. All this in just a second's glance as I flung open the door. Before I was halfway out, they were on me.

I sent a ruthless kick into the medic's bad leg, dropping him with an outraged cry. A smile ghosted over the other one's lips.

"I say, Watson, I believe you're losing your touch." He teased. I scanned him incessantly for a weakness, for some opening, but his constantly changing stance allotted me no advantage. Step by agonizing step, I retreated into the small passageway. Darkness mockingly tinted my vision and the dizziness returned. Seeing this, the man instantly changed his bearings and stood at the ready in case I fell. Making a quick decision, I let my leg collapse. As I'd hoped, he shot forward, sacrificing his balance to catch me. Taking full advantage of this, I threw myself the other way and, with a firm punch, flung him down the stairs. Without a moment's hesitation, I started toward the other door, but the soldier had regained his footing.

"I say, Holmes, I believe you're losing you touch!" He shot back at his fallen friend. A sarcastic laugh echoed from the staircase.

"Proper introductions are due, I think." He said, turning his attention back to me. Abandoning his aggressive stance, he straightened, still favoring his left leg. "My name is John H. Watson. And the man you just sent crashing down the stairs is Detective Sherlock Holmes." With a grunt, the man pushed himself to his feet and started up the stairs. The higher he climbed, the faster my heart beat. I was surrounded. "Now, you are badly injured and need very much to lie down before you tear your stitches." He stated calmly, but with a hint of suppressed impatience. "We're trying to help you. You adamantly refused to go to a hospital, so I am doing my best to care for you here." Holmes. I knew that name. So long ago. Why could I not remember? My stomach and back felt warm. The room suddenly dipped. I had to grab onto a nearby chair to keep my feet beneath me. The man, Watson started toward me, but stopped himself upon seeing the terror enter my eyes. I cursed myself for the panic overwhelming me, but I could not quell the racing of my heart; the frantic gasps my breathing had become.

"Girl, you're about to collapse," I started violently at the voice beside me and automatically swung a fist toward him. He rolled from my attack, positioning himself slightly behind me. Without thinking, I flung myself into him, slamming him against the wall. While this successfully knocked the air from his lungs, it also set my back ablaze. Biting back the groan, I charged Watson. He blocked my advance, but offered no offence of his own.

"Blast, women; I said we're trying to help you." Lies. Sometimes they'd talk quietly, like they wanted to help you; to love you; then they would beat you and rape you and leave you bloody and broken and hurt. What little logic I still managed to cling to was quickly being drowned out in my growing panic. The floor squeaked behind me. I turned hard, empowering a hard kick that Holmes easily dodged. Recovering quickly, I reversed the turn to throw my entire body into a punch. Like before, he spun away from it, allowing me just enough time to curve my arm and, though weaker than I had hoped, landed a descent hit on the side of his head. Watson rushed forward the instant I swung my fist. He grabbed my other arm in an attempt to restrain me. Using him as a counter balance, I leaned back, robbing him of his balance, and kicked him hard in the stomach. I nearly cried out from the debilitating pain that tore through my abdomen. Hide it. Hide the pain. Hide the dizziness. The torturous nausea. Just long enough to escape. With a grunt, he staggered back. I returned my attention to Holmes.

Suddenly it was dark. Trapped. I was trapped! In a panic, I screamed, but my voice was muffled in the fabric. With every ounce of strength I had, I struggled and flailed and fought. I sunk my teeth into whatever I could. He tensed, but offered no resistance. Warm.

"Alright; that's enough." Soft murmurs. Shaking violently, I froze; mind racing for some escape. "You're safe." No. No; I wasn't safe. I had to get away. And I had to free the others. "The others have already been taken care of. And the kingpin is in custody." The police knew. And they made deals. And the doctors. And the judges. He would find me. "He's not going to find you." I tried to argue, to fight my weakening body, but it was so warm. He was so warm. "Easy." He whispered. He held me so tightly, yet my wounds didn't burn beneath his touch. Regardless how I fought it, my muscles steadily ceased their attempts at freedom. The hands that had so desperately tried to push him away, gripped the fabric of his shirt and clung to him.

"Well, I say." Watson's voice broke the trance and I regained a touch of strength. Vaguely, I noticed Holmes glare at the man on the other side of the room, but it mattered little. Regardless how hard I struggled, how much I fought him; his hold didn't waver; always only just strong enough to keep me still.

"Easy," he murmured again, taking a deep, slow breath. "It's alright." It wasn't alright. Nothing was alright. Yet, my body responded to his soothing voice. My wounds throbbed and my body trembled, but the panic began to recede. "I'm going to put you on the bed now." he whispered. The thought of moving sent a fresh wave of adrenaline from my chest and I couldn't silence the whimper. "Easy." The last bit of strength left me and I fell. He gently guided me down. Weakly, my hand gripped to his shirt. I couldn't bring myself to let go. Why?

Gently, he lifted my tattered body to his chest. Regardless the care he took, the movement sent daggers into my back. The groan caught in my throat and my muscles tightened. He quickly set me back down on the bed. I struggled to make sense of the blurs of colors dancing across my eyes. Hands. Gasping, I flung myself across the bed. Still, my hand refused to let go. Uneven pants shook my body. For just a moment, I saw those intriguing eyes; filled with conflicting childlike wonder and the torturous understanding of some horrible truth that plagued him. Shades of gold and grey danced through the soft brown irises. For just a second, and then it was gone.

Something tugged at the gown. With a started, I tried to evade the touch, but it was futile. Something pressed hard against the gash on my abdomen. I screamed from the white hot pain that tore through me. My entire body tensed and my free hand latched around the thing that caused such hurt. Desperately, I fight to escape it, but it ruthlessly pursued me.

"Holmes, I need you to keep pressure on this while I get my kit." Some part of me heard the words, but they were drowned out by the panicked thunder of my racing heart. A sob tore through my throat. For just a moment, it was gone. Before I could appreciate the brief moment of relief, another hand replaced it. I cried out in agony, but could do nothing more than whimper as my diaphragm struggled to fill my lungs with air.

"Easy, we're going to make it better." Why did I believe him? I didn't want to believe him. I wanted to fight; to run. But I couldn't move. I could barely breathe through the immobilizing torture stabbing through my stomach. Yet somehow I drew strength from his words, and I found his eyes. His touch was different. Not as cold.

The door opened, and the panic returned. I grabbed his wrist from fear rather than pain. Don't let them take me. Please, please don't let them take me.

"Easy, it's alright." No, no. They're coming. "Hey, listen to me," Footsteps. They're getting closer. "Come on, focus," I squirmed beneath him, trying vainly to see them. "Look at me." My body automatically obeyed him. "We're going to help you." And I believed him. Without taking my eyes from his, I let go of his wrist, but still couldn't release my hold on his shirt. Something shot across his face too quickly for me to name.

"Move, Holmes." Impatient. Demanding. My fear resurfaced, but I forced myself to remain still. "Holmes, move." He repeated sternly.

"I can't." He retorted. Watson was quiet a moment, but finally began to work around him. Something pricked my arm. I started, but Holmes' showed no signs of worry. Grinding my teeth, I let my head fall and clenched my eyes. Within seconds, everything started to fade. Voices. Just on the edge of hearing. Couldn't understand them. Something was hurting. I acknowledged the pain, but didn't actually feel it. Just don't let go. It'll all be okay as long as I don't let go. Darkness.


	3. What I Am

So, realized the OC, also the person narating this oh-so uplifting tail, hadn't actually been introduced yet, haha. This lack of proper introduction tends to be a reoccuring trait of my narators, I've come to realize. So, though I've only received one (much appreciated) review, another chapter for you!

**An Artist Appreciates Only the Details**

_**What I Am**_

The darkness was blissfully empty. No horrors. No pain. I wanted to stay there. To forget about the horrors I would have to deal with upon waking. But there was something I needed to do. Something important. The women! I had to free the women!

With a gasp, I shot up, instantly sending white-hot pain tearing through my abdomen making me cry out and double over. At nearly the same time, a man beside me startled into consciousness; seeming ready for a fight. My fingers were still locked around his shirt. Immediately, I snatched my arm away.

"I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever get my shirt back." He said lightly. Already, my heart was racing. "And here I thought we were past all this distrust." Dizzy. There was an almost imperceptible hint of sadness in his voice. Those eyes. Clinging to the world's wonder even while aware of its most terrible horrors. The fear began to subside as the heaviness of my limbs became more noticeable, but footsteps sounded in the neighboring room. The door swung open. And the panic set in. I tried to run, but all my body could manage was a few inches, subtly leaning behind the man I vaguely remember to be Holmes. Understanding my terror, Holmes sat up and angled himself more directly between myself and Watson.

"And a wonderful morning to you, Watson." He said, overly joyous. Watson nodded to him before resting his gaze on me. Part of me analyzed him again, noting the military training; the weakness of his left leg. But I couldn't move. "I wonder if you might give us a moment, old friend." Though the worlds were a request, he left no room for objection. Watson's jaw tightened, but, with a sigh, he left. For a moment, Holmes was silent, and only the frantic racing of my heart filled my ears as the room began to spin.

"What's your name?" he asked softly; back still turned to me. I couldn't find my voice. My name. When last was I called by my name? He swallowed hard and studied the sheets a moment before meeting my gaze. "I find it mildly inappropriate to have shared a bed with someone without knowing their name." Something important. The reason I left the safety the sleep.

"The women." I managed to gasp, fighting to keep the world from blurring.

"All freed and safe." He assured me quickly. "You already know my name, and Watson's."

"But the Kingpin," I started, but he interrupted me.

"Also taken care of." He dismissed before returning to a topic of greater interest to him. "It seems rude to give ones name to someone and not be told theirs in exchange."

"But the clients were policemen."

"Insulting, even."

"Damn it, they're still in danger!" I shouted suddenly as body began to tremble. The teasing light left his eyes.

"The names and addresses of all of the 'clients'" he said the word with disgust, "were cataloged by the Kingpin. Upon arresting him, we uncovered these documents and the culprits have, since, been apprehended and appropriately dealt with." He waited a moment to let this sink in before, in the same serious tone as before, as though it were of the utmost importance, "Now," and with a slightly more carefree tone, "your name?"

My mind swam a moment. It was over? It was really over? Something warm slid from my burning eyes. Uncertain, I touched my shaking fingertips to my cheek and looked at the liquid. I was crying. How queer. I couldn't meet his eyes as these facts overwhelmed me. The bed seemed to undulated beneath me.

"You're certain?" I barely whispered, unable to tear my gaze from the blankets.

"Absolutely," he promised. "I am quite certain I would like to know your name." I couldn't help but laugh, if only to relieve some of the emotion storming through me. His gaze softened and a smirk pulled at his lips.

"Allia." I told him. "Allia Alansry." His smirk turned into a smile.

"There, now that wasn't so hard." He mocked. "And, as you already know, I am Sherlock Holmes and the man whom you have twice now knocked down, is my dear friend John Watson." Sherlock Holmes. Finally recognition crashing into me. Detective Sherlock Holmes. London's self-proclaimed most brilliant mind.

"Holmes." I muttered, more to myself than to him. The room was spinning more violently now.

"Indeed." He confirmed absently. "Now, Watson has been adamant about checking your wounds frequently to prevent the infection from spreading." Dr. John Watson. A decorated war hero. And twice I had taken advantage of his weakness. I would need to apologize to him. A chill ran down my spine and I couldn't help but shudder. I thought nothing more of it, but Holmes drew attention to it at once.

"Are you alright?" He asked almost absently, paying little attention to my reply. Before I could say anything, he pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. The instant his hand touched me, my body flinched violently back and my heart began to race. Vaguely I acknowledged the hurt that passed across his face, but couldn't think more of it as panic spread through me.

"Ms. Alansry, I'm not going to hurt you." He whispered meeting my terrified eyes. Slower, he touched his hand to my forehead. My muscles tensed, but I didn't move from his cool touch. Was I trembling from panic or from the chill that seemed to creep into my very bones?

"Watson," Holmes called over his shoulder before returning his attention to me. "I'm afraid it seems as though your fever has returned." He explained. The door opened. Without saying a word, the man took in the scene; the shaking of my body, Holmes' hand on my head and how his expression hardened, and he understood. Moving slowly, he made his way to the bed. I couldn't help but lean back slightly from his proximity.

"Madam," he started slowly, "I fear we may have gotten off at a bad start, but I assure you I mean you no harm." I swallowed hard. My eyes automatically shot briefly to Holmes who gave me a tiny, reassuring smirk. I was supposed to do something. Why couldn't I remember? "I'm going to check your temperature now, alright?" He tried to add some softness to his precise words, but he couldn't suppress the directness of his aim. I was distracted for a moment by how the colors twirled before my eyes and didn't see his hand reach for me. When his cool skin touched me, I startled. The room dipped suddenly beneath me, and I was falling. Something caught me and guided my near limp body against something warm. I struggled vainly to clear my mind enough to understand what was happening, but to no avail.

"Lie her down." The world gently moved around me and the warmth started to retreat. In a panic, my hand shot out and latched around it. A wrist? I didn't know. I didn't understand. My body was freezing and the only reprieve was leaving.

"Cold." It came out as a barely audible whimper. Something touched my forehead. With a gasp, my hold tightened and I shoved myself into the bed, desperate for any distance I could gain between myself and the thing that might cause hurt. _Easy._ I wasn't sure if I had actually heard anything, but the word whispered through my mind and eased my body, if only a little. Someone sighed.

"Isn't... can… do." Broken words. "Lost…blood… infection… keep… clean." I struggled to understand, but everything was muted by the deafening pounding in my head. A voice in the back of my mind whispered that it was my racing heart, but even that I couldn't fully comprehend. The thing in my hand, the warmth that I mustn't release, rested absently on my shoulder. My body automatically leaned into the touch. Someone scoffed quietly in disbelief. "Going to… clean… might sting…" Something cold touched the skin near the wound on my abdomen. Instantly, I tried vainly to evade it, but a hot hand pressed gently on the stomach, pinning me to the bed. Trapped. My panic redoubled. Hyperventilating. I couldn't breathe.

"It's alright." Clearly, I heard him. "It'll hurt a little, but it'll help." Why couldn't I ignore those words? Why did I believe him? I couldn't fathom it, but my body responded with complete trust. And the darkness returned to my vision. Ah. That made more sense. It wasn't that I trusted him; I merely could hold on to consciousness no longer. Lies; that wasn't true. Even as I slipped away, I knew that wasn't true.


	4. My Eyes are Open

Guess who just got internet? So, I've got one more chapter already written and have started on another, however, I've no intentions of merely letting my other story, Hounds of Hell, fade into nothing. So! Enjoy this bit for a week or so until I finished up the chapter for Hounds, then I shall release another for all you Sherlock freaks!

Also, and this goes for all of my stories, I shall find some sort of story-related prize (probably either a camio, spoiler, or the option to add some input to the plot) for anyone who decides to draw some fan art! Send me a link (deviantart is where I post some pics, super easy), and we'll discuss your reward!

**My Eyes are Open**

For the first time in ages, it seemed, I could think clearly. There was no haze from a fever; no flashing darkness from the insanity of my imprisonment. I listened to the steady clicks of horses outside; the roar of an angry wind; distant voices shouting. I could taste and smell the moisture in the air. It wasn't raining yet, but a storm was surely coming. Still, the air was stuffy, as though I had slept beneath several blankets and my exhalations had been trapped around me. The faint sent of a fire; in a neighboring room, perhaps? It mattered little. I didn't need a fire. I had never been so perfectly warm and content in all my life. However daft it may seem, I truly felt safe.

Almost reluctantly, my eyes opened. Darkness. It couldn't be night yet; the streets were far too busy for after hour activity. Something moved. A breath? Since when do blankets breathe? I moved slightly to better investigate the abnormality. Something tightened around my back. Arms. Panic flooded me. A man! No sooner had the realization crossed my mind than my body reacted. In a swift movement, I drew my knees to my stomach and struck him with every ounce of strength my depleted muscles processed.

What would have been a satisfactory sound of his breath being forced from his lungs was drowned out by the sudden explosion in my stomach and back. As he flew off the bed and landed with a heavy thud on the wooden floors, my body doubled over, every muscle tense from the agony burning from the wounds.

"Holmes? What the bloody hell was that?" A man called from the other room. Slowly, the fire retreated, but my diaphragm was still beyond control.

"She's awake." Groaned a muffled reply. Clutching my screaming stomach, I managed to get to my knees to better meet whatever advances were surely coming. In seconds, the door opened. The man tried only briefly to hide the humor from his face as he realized what had occurred.

"Ms. Alansry," the fallen man started as he slowly got to his feet, "I've no qualms allowing you the use of my bed, but I would be truly grateful if you would make a decision as to whether or not you wish me to be in it." Even as he said the annoyed words, a smirk toyed with his lips. I struggled to understand his demands. "The past two nights, you refused to release me, yet when you woke it has, both times, ended violently." The thing I wouldn't release. I vaguely recalled how desperate I was to keep that warmth near me.

"My apologies," I whispered, suddenly finding the sheet remarkably interesting as blood rushed to my cheeks. "You startled me, is all." Amusement beaming from his eyes, Watson walked towards us.

"Well, you certainly seem more coherent today. How do you feel?" he asked; the professionalism only touching his words.

"Fine." I lied, forcing my hand to release my wounded abdomen. "You have my gratitude for your assistance, and I give you my word to fully repay you for your services, Doctor." With a pang of guilt, I added, "And I am truly sorry for how I treated you earlier." The amusement redoubled in his expression.

"Not to worry. It's good for the mind to occasionally be knocked down a few pegs." He replied with a smile.

"On that note, I must enquire as to where a lady learned to fight like that." Holmes asked. I shifted to a more comfortable position before answering him.

"I was the youngest of five children, and the only girl amongst them." I could only speak fondly of my upbringing. "My mother passed in childbirth, so it was left to my nanny to teach me the ways of women, whilst my brothers, in no gentle manner, taught me the ways of men." Being the only girl, their favorite pastime was to gang up on me. There was no choice but to learn to retaliate. And retaliate I did. On more than one occasion, I succeeded in besting the four of them.

"Well, that helps my pride, at least." Commented Watson as he leaned against the wall. Holmes chuckled.

"Where am I, then?" I asked glancing out the window. "London?"

"Indeed." The Doctor confirmed.

"Then travel will be easy." I muttered as I scooted to the edge of the bed.

"Nonsense," Holmes retorted blocking my way, "You shall stay here until your wounds have healed." Stubbornly, I looked him in the eyes.

"I am perfectly capable of caring for myself, Detective." I argued.

"Really?" He shot back. "Madam, it is physically impossible for you to clean and dress the wounds on your back. That is simply a fact." And, before the lie of going to a hospital crossed my lips, he added, "And, with your lack of at-home assistance and complete distrust of doctors, Watson here is the best suited man for the job." There was something he wasn't telling me; some terrible reason I couldn't leave. Holmes played the lie perfectly, but the near unnoticeable twitch of Watson's jaw and his flickering eyes screamed the truth.

"What is it?" I asked the Doctor sternly. He met my eyes for only a moment, confirming my suspicions. "What aren't you telling me?" I demanded more strongly. The floor suddenly became gravely fascinating to Watson, so I returned my attention to Holmes, whose smile had faded. In a true testimony to my determination, I forced myself to my feet and stood directly before the man filled with tainted innocence.

"Miss, you really should lie" Watson started, but I interrupted.

"Then tell me!" My voice was cold and unwavering. What could possibly be of such importance to keep me here and prevent me from learning? The obviousness of the answer was almost insulting. "He's free." It wasn't a question. Solemnly, the doctor met my eyes. Instantly, my body began to tremble. Holmes gently touched my arm, as though expecting me to collapse. I purposefully slapped him away and, disregarding the pain screaming from wounds, forced my way through them.

"Where are you going?" Holmes asked calmly. It took every ounce of strength I had to hide the agony coursing through my body.

"Thank you again, gentlemen, for your help." The anger in my voice was uncontrollable, though I didn't mean to direct it at them. I had to distance myself. This case had become far too personal. But how could it not? With what had happened, how could I not become wholly invested in it? No, I had to step back. Emotions would blind me to vital facts. "As I said, I shall fully repay you for your services, and I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused." It would have been proper and polite if not for how rushed the words were. Just as my fingers clutched the knob, Holmes put a firm hand on the door, holding it shut.

"Let me go." I demanded, staring coldly at the door. He didn't move. "Am I to be your prisoner, then?" His stance left his side fully exposed. A hard jab to his kidney would stun him long enough to land a hard punch to his nose. As he recoiled from such an attack, I could meet the retaliation Watson would then surely enact. Feint an attack on his bad leg; he would be expecting that and would then prepare to defend the vulnerable appendage, thus leaving an opening for a strike to the right side of his head. Using the momentum of this attack, I could deliver a hard punch to Holmes' stomach and escape before they could recover.

"Not at all," Holmes said light heartedly, leaning against the door with his arms crossed around his abdomen, "We are merely strongly advising that you remain here until I have apprehended the criminal and put a more permanent end to his operations."

"I do not require your assistance." I argued, recalibrating my offense. At this point, a knee to the groin, though dirty, would be most efficient to give me time to deal with Watson before escaping through another door.

"Certainly; because you have obviously deduced said criminal's whereabouts." He challenged. "His being a doctor would place his home in the richer side of town; more than likely in close proximity to the"

"Site of the disappearances of the girls," I interrupted, "The reddish dirt on his shoes can only be from the iron-rich soil deposits dug up from the construction sites near Johnathan Street. At the early stages of my capture, he made some attempt, at least, to clean the soil from his shoes, but such attempts have recently ceased. The construction was anything but new, and the scandal had begun no less than two months prior. This means that he must be new to the area, else he would have either found a new route, or would have ignored such stains from the beginning. From this I can be sure that he moved took up a new residence near Johnathan Street roughly around the time of my capture. I can be certain of his profession from the scent of surgical alcohol and iodine that always accompanied his presence, and by the precise way he checked for a pulse to ensure that I had not yet died. He is six feet, four inches tall; weighs approximately one hundred thirteen kilograms; walks slightly bow-legged, the result of improper riding; and has a false incisor. Such details dwindles the possible suspects down to a perfectly manageable number, I assure you. Again, I have no further need of your assistance." It was getting increasingly difficult to keep my feet beneath me.

Watson laughed. "Well, I say." Holmes smirked.

"Indeed, that would have helped you earlier, but since his capture"

"He would have gone into hiding, but from the state of his dwellings I can deduce his probable headings. I can find the men who worked for him, as well those who took advantage of such a business as his and gather additional data that may further narrow possible refuges."

"And you obviously are in no shape to perform such a search on your own." As though to support his claim, my disloyal leg collapsed. Effortlessly, he caught me against him. Even as my hands clung to him, I struggled to regain my footing and put some distance between us.

"I'm fine!" I lied resolutely, trying to rid myself of his hold.

"You're bleeding." He stated. Cursing my traitorous body, I bowed my head and desperately sought some valid argument. "Give your body time to heal, and we will find him." He assured me. Panting, my leg caved again. Without another word, he guided me back to his bed, supporting most of my weight.

"You must eat something." Watson said as I sat on the edge of the mattress. As he headed towards the door, Holmes retrieved the chair from the other side of the room and sat down before me. "In the three days you've been here, you have had neither a drop of water nor a bite of food. And God only knows when you last had a decent meal." My stomach churned at the thought of food, but I said nothing as he left.

"How did you deduce his false tooth?" Holmes asked after a moment's silence. My jaw tensed and I said nothing, trying vainly to rid my mind of the answer. "Ah." He dismissed. "And how did you come to have such an appreciation of details?" I couldn't help but smile at the answer.

"My father was a painter," I replied affectionately. "To a true artist, the details are the only things worth paying attention to." Holmes nodded.

"Quite true." He almost bit back the question, but the raw need for answers, which I knew so intimately, forced the words into existence. "Where is he?" Though his real question was, 'Why did he not notice my disappearance?'

"He is dead." I answered simply. Holmes was silent. "A thief tried to rob our home. I had taken a horse to town for to pick something up for dinner. When I can back my father, my brothers, and my nanny had all been killed and our home stripped of valuables." Again, he hesitated a moment, toying with the question I already knew was coming.

"Did you"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I killed him." I said bluntly. "I was twelve years old without a penny to my name and no family to speak of. So, I took to the streets. I found people were easily amazed by my simply noticing a few subtleties and revealing to them a few details most would overlook. It was borderline thievery, but it paid for supper and, eventually led to a career." I rested my elbows on my knees and looked in his eyes. "And you?" Confliction ruled his gaze before he finally replied.

"In college, I was taught the simple rules of deduction and later found my life ruled by them. The father of a colleague of mine introduced me to the work of a detective. What started as simple things about the campus became elaborate cases, and thus my work began." I said nothing as I looked at him. There was more behind his motives. As he met my gaze, I could see the words catch in his throat. With a sigh, the facade fell. "My father murdered my mother before killing himself." My jaw tensed, but I was silent "I later discovered that my mother was having an affair and my father found out." He swallowed hard, but his eyes never left mine. "When something like that happens," He wet his lips as he fought for the proper words, "the only options one is left with… is to find the truth, the reason behind it all."

"But it doesn't help." I whispered, "Knowing why doesn't fix it; doesn't make it right." He gave a quiet scoff.

"No. It doesn't. But obsessing over the details of another's problem"

"Keeps you from obsessing over your own." I finished. How often had I confronted myself with the same, horrible truth? For a brief moment, it was silent. An almost troubled smirk pulled at his lips.

"And I believe Watson has been eavesdropping quite long enough." He said, a bit more loudly, eyeing the door. With a touch of effort, I straightened myself as the blushing Doctor entered the room with a plate of food and a glass of water.

"I, ah, seem to have forgotten a, uh, date with Mary." Without meeting either of our eyes, he handed Holmes the plate and cup, knowing the likelihood of my being unable to hold them. "If you have need of me, you know where to find me. And Miss Alansry, it is my professional opinion that you remain in bed for at least four days." He hesitated a moment; at a loss for words, before uncomfortably excusing himself.

"Oh my," Holmes chuckled, "I seem to have flustered him." I laughed and rolled onto my back. The subtle pressure felt wondrous against the aching flesh. "Come, now. It is a very rare occasion for Watson to cook; you mustn't let it go to waste." Again, my stomach churned. I had to roll onto my side to quell it.

"By all means, then, enjoy it. I fear I would find much less pleasure in it than you." I admitted, letting my fingers roam over the smooth fabric of the sheets. How strange the sensation of such softness after experiencing such torture for so long.

"He'd have my head for sure." He retorted, yet there was affection in his voice. "Just a few bites, then?" he tempted. I stubbornly hid my face in the blankets. With a scoff, he tugged gently at the cloth. "Do you honestly think you can hide from London's most brilliant mind?" he challenged.

"You have yet to face Lambeth's most brilliant mind." I retorted, turning away from him.

"Hardly a fair fight." He dismissed, following me in his attempts to rid my face of the cover.

"Then forfeit." I mocked with a smile, briefly revealing my face that I might see his response. A smirk toyed with his lips, but his eyes gleamed with amusement.

"Never." He said defiantly. "Watson said that you must eat, and I'll be damned before blatantly disobeying his orders." With a giggle, I retreated into the blankets. How strange. As he fought to strip me of my hiding place, I laughed. Truly laughed. I couldn't recall when last I had experienced such mirth. He laughed as well, rich and full. During our struggles, I continuously inched closer to the edge until the bed suddenly vanished beneath me. I gasped as I tried to prepare myself for the coming pain from the abrupt landing. Something jerked my arm, sending daggers into the still sensitive shoulder joint, but something firm, yet soft replaced the hard wood, saving me from the unyielding floor.

Holmes chuckled painfully beneath me, but the smile never faded from him lips. I couldn't help but laugh with him.

"I won." He stated, lifting his head to look at me for just a moment before dropping it back to the ground.

"I fail to see how!" I argued. He took a moment to catch his breath.

"You are no longer… hidden within the blankets." I bit my grinning lips and glared at him.

"Very well Holmes. You've won this round." I admitted begrudgingly. I tried to push myself back to my feet, but a sudden agony surged through my shoulder. With a strangled cry, my hand shot to the cursed joint and I collapsed back against Holmes.

"Allia?" His alarmed call barely reached my ears over the thundering of my heart. Trembling slightly, I ground my jaw and forced some control back into my limbs.

"Sorry," I mumbled; voice strained and breathy, "Just… a moment, please." For several seconds, he was still, locked in indecision. Almost hesitantly, his arms wrapped gently around me; more supportive than reassuring.

"You're shoulders were slowly pulled from the sockets from the position in which you were kept." He explained factually, yet with a touch of softness. This was nothing I didn't know but, for some strange reason, it comforting to hear him say it. "Watson did what he could to relocate them, but he voiced suspicions of torn ligaments and cartilage, both of which are prone to lengthy recovery times."So slightly, his embrace tightened and yet, almost instantly the pain faded. Though my breathing was still choppy, my muscles relaxed until I lay limp over him. A blissful silence settled over us. Almost in a daze, I basked in the wondrous lack of pain.

"Thank you." I whispered into his chest. Even as the words left my lips, I didn't understand to the extent which I thanked him. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for not turning me over to the false authorities and refuges. Thank you for your patience. For helping me. For taking the hurt away. "Thank you." Warm. I vaguely heard his voice, but reality was already drifting away.

* * *

"Holmes? What are you doing on the floor?" From a distance, I heard the voice, but couldn't bring myself to feel any hint of concern.

"I thought it best not to wake her." Soft words rippling beneath me; tickling my cheek. I nuzzled against the warmth beneath me to quite the vibrating nerves. Ever so subtly, something tightened around me. My body melted against it and a quiet sigh fled my lips.

"I was attempting to persuade her to eat." Whispers dancing around me. "I seem to have won to some degree, and yet lost at the same time." Something like laughter in his voice. Someone chuckled. Drearily, my eyes parted slightly. To some extent, I realized I was still lying on Holmes; that his arms were still wrapped delicately around me. My flittering eyes met his and, instantly, every murmur of worry vanished. Safe. A small smile. Weakly, I smiled back before the gentle lulling of his steady breathes coaxed my head back to his chest and the loving embrace of sleep reclaimed me.


	5. Waking Up to a Nightmare

And we've reached the final chapter I'd finished prior to uploading this. I've finished maybe half of the next chapter, but I'm going to type out and publish the next chapter for Hound of Hell first because A- it's already written and B- it hasn't had much attention from me recently and I don't like neglecting my charaters. Anyways, fucked up shit due to occur in the next couple chapters, resulting in ample amounts of fluff!

**Waking Up to a Nightmare**

"You said she needed rest." Someone argued quietly.

"I also said that she needed to eat." Came the not-so-quiet rebuke.

"She'll wake soon." He whispered stubbornly.

"Holmes, you've been lying there for hours." My hands subconsciously gripped at the fabric beneath me. Everything seemed blanketed in a blissful haze.

"I find it quite comfortable." He dismissed.

"Holmes?" At first, I didn't believe the uncertain voice was mine, but the man beneath me instantly responded. He met my blurry eyes and shifted his arms slightly. In a brief moment of clarity, I realized Holmes had acted, not only as a buffer to soften my fall, but also a cushion while I slept. "'m sorry." I muttered, unable to properly articulate my words.

"It's quite al"

"Ms. Alansry," Watson interrupted, earning a glare from Holmes, "I am sorry to disturb your sleep, but you really must eat something." My stomach flipped. I ground my teeth to force it into submission. "Mrs. Hudson can prepare a tea that does wonders for an uneasy stomach." I gave a serious effort to turn my head that I might see him, but my muscles simply didn't have the strength. Breathing slightly labored, my body went limp against Holmes. "Ms. Alansry?" He called.

"Allia?" Was that a touch of concern in his voice? I briefly met those chocolate eyes before letting my lids fall back.

"Tired." I whispered.

"Holmes, she must eat. Her body is starting to shut down." Watson warned. I felt his jaw muscles ball. With a sigh, he cupped my hand with his cheek and lifted my gaze to his.

"Allia?" The gentleness in his voice; I couldn't help respond, though all I could managed was to open my eyes. "Allia, it's time to eat." Though it wasn't a question, he spoke softly. I struggled to clear my mind of the empty fog, but I couldn't retrieve the logic to which I so often clung. "Just a few bites; alright?" I didn't want to eat. It wouldn't stay down; I knew it wouldn't stay down.

"Stomach." I whispered, begging him to understand. He carefully sat up; holding my almost ragdoll body against his warm chest. The movement sent a twinge of pain from the cuts and abrasions and gashes decorating my body. A quiet grunt betrayed my attempts at hiding it. Instantly, his touch softened. I closed my eyes and waited for the burning ache to recede. A gentle hand touched my head.

"She doesn't feel feverish." Holmes said over his shoulder. I weakly brushed his hand away.

"No fever," I mumbled through the darkness shrouding my mind. "Tired" Watson's jaw twitched.

"Just a few pieces of fruit, at least. And a glass of milk." The Doctor added. With a touch of irritation, I realized he wasn't talking to me.

The door suddenly flew open. Even half comatose, my body flinched. Holmes' arms tightened, quieting my alarm as a women burst into the room. She was carrying a number of things and speaking far too quickly for me to comprehend anything other than distress and anger. She pointed an accusing finger toward me and shouted an order. Though part of me assumed she was motioning at Holmes, my hands clenched his shirt in terror and my body pressed against him; anything to distance myself from the incorrigible thing storming towards us. I felt his chest rumble from speech, but couldn't hear his hushed attempts to quiet her. After a moment of her continuing to berate everyone in the room and placing the seemingly random assortment of things on the bed, Watson added his voice to settle her, but to no avail. My heart raced fiercely, flooding my veins with adrenaline. The arms around me tightened absently.

"Shut up!" Holmes suddenly shouted, making me flinch violently. My head instantly ducked against the assault that was surely coming, and I hid my face against his chest as my body trembled. Silence. "While your assistance would be greatly appreciated," His voice was strained with an attempt at masking his irritation, "if you cannot lower your voice, then pray leave; for you are doing more harm than good." I could feel their eyes bur into my back, and subconsciously curled into a tiny ball; so tiny that they wouldn't see me; wouldn't hurt me. I knew the impossibility of such a desire, but still I tried.

Someone sighed; feminine. Gentle footfalls; schooled sternly in the proper ways of women. _Tsk, tsk, tsk_; like one accustomed to dealing with children; not her own, though. Younger siblings, perhaps. Something touched my shouldered. In a panic, I shied violently from her, regardless the burning of my wounds as the taunt skin was pulled and torn muscles used. The protective arms tensed. Please; I wanted nothing more than to be left alone; to sleep.

"Poor thing; she's shaking." No. Please, no. My entire body tensed. _Poor thing._

"Allia?" And the whip cracked. _She's shaking._ No more. The icy blade carved along my skin. Please; just make it stop. "Allia." _It's alright._ God; please no more; please. _I'm not going to hurt you._ Their hands shook with anticipation, jarring the knife. Jagged. Don't move. Don't pull against the restraints that dug into your wrists and ankles. "Allia!" It's always worse when you struggle. The blade goes deeper. Blood. Everywhere blood. Something rough touched my cheek, trying to get my attention. My arms shot around my head and a weak whimper sounded in my throat. No! No more! Please, no more!

"Watson?" Uncertainty. Fear, almost.

"Her mind is relapsing to her time in captivity." Hurried words. Men. Everything, hands. No; don't touch me! I gave a sudden, violent attempt to rid myself of the touch, but the hold tightened. Panic. Couldn't breathe. Muscles rigid. No; don't move. They like it when you move. And they want more. More pain. Please, no more pain.

"I know that. How do I stop it?" Annoyance. Anger. They were angry. A whimper sounded in my throat.

"Come on, dear. Open your eyes." A woman. Lies. Don't believe them. Women caused hurt too. A soft hand on my shoulder. No! Don't touch me! I cried and thrashed in vain. Couldn't escape. Can't escape. No, I could fight. I had to fight!

"I don't know." He struggled, stumbling over quickly chosen words. "Try doing what you did before." Alcohol. I could smell alcohol; faint but present. Aim for the kidney.

"All I did was hold her, which I am already doing." He retorted; irritation clear in his hurried voice. And run. I had to run.

"Speak to her. Make her feel safe." Three. I could fight them. I could beat them. I could escape.

"Because _you_ were so successful." He shot back. Move, damn it! Terror froze my muscles, regardless how I demanded them to work.

"Just do it, Holmes." A twitch. Just a twitch of my finger, and the trance was broken. In the lapse of a single heartbeat, I drew my fist back and struck the thing that restrained me. His sudden cry of pain and surprise fell on deaf ears and I flung myself from his hold, making a mad dash for the door. A slender hand caught my arm. Slender wrists; slender ankles. I kicked her feet out from under her and she dropped. Someone cursed. Rushed footsteps. Voices. Someone called my name.

My hand reached the knob and threw it open. Again something latched around my arm. Without a moment's hesitation, I turned to face them. Throwing the momentum into a hard punch to his jaw. His arm came up just in time to guide it harmlessly away. He was talking. I could see his lips move, but could hear nothing over the frantic pounding of my heart. I pulled back desperately, but his hold only tightened. Weak left leg. I tried to kick the favored appendage, but he pulled just enough to rob me of my balance. I quickly arched my arm in a big circle, rotating his hand until he was forced to release me. But just as soon as one hand was gone, another appeared. I kicked him hard in the stomach, but he showed little signs of noticing. Too strong. Angry shouts. I couldn't escape.

For just a second, he glanced over his shoulder to shout some rebuke. Taking full advantage of his momentary distraction, I swung my foot into his injured thigh. Assuming such a blow would weaken his grasp, I flung myself back, but his grip remained steadfast. In a panic, I kicked at him. I don't know where I struck him, but suddenly I was falling back. Someone shouted my name. Forever I seemed to fall, past the point of where the floor should have met me. Stairs.

I don't remember the agonizing descent as my body struck so many hard corners. I was merely suddenly lying on the floor. And it was cold. My lungs burned, screaming for oxygen, but I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. Agony raged through me, robbing me of my senses. I couldn't see. I couldn't think. A hesitant warmth caressed my cheek.

"Don't move her." The order would have made me flinch were I capable of it. Something pressed against my throat. Different than the other touch. Precise. "Ms. Alansry, can you hear me?" Sharp and clear, as though spoken to a child.

"Allia?" Something about the gentle desperation. Blindly, I sought him. Soft brown. Like chocolate laced with silver and gold.

"Allia, can you move your toes?" Without looking away from those eyes, I forced the appendages to wiggle, if only a little. Someone sighed with relief. Tiny wisps of air flowed through my lips, but I could feel the darkness coming. I'd done it again. I'd hurt them.

"'m s'ry." I muttered, knowing how incomprehensible the syllables were. His jaw tensed, but a gentle hand touched my forehead and he gave a sad smile.

"Can you get her back to bed?" Holmes said nothing as he gently lifted my limp body to his chest. I could feel the stiffness of his abdomen, but never once did he jar me as he started up the stairs. I was asleep before he'd reached the second story.

Warmth. Safe. I felt safe. My eyes slowly parted, knowing what I would see; that my head rested on his arm; that he held me protectively against him. His chest moved ever so slightly as he slept. If he inhaled too deeply, his face would cringe with pain. My fault. My fingers laced around his shirt and I pressed my forehead against his chest. I'd hurt him. Guilt stabbed through my chest. He gave a small sharp inhale and his arms tightened subconsciously.

"Allia?" he breathed groggily. What could I say? How many 'thank you's to truly convey my gratitude; how 'I'm sorry's to make it better? A small hiccup sounded from my throat. Without another word, he held me. His arms crushed me against his chest, and I clung to him as silent sobs shook me. I sobbed because of the horrors I had seen. I sobbed because of what had been done to me. I sobbed because my family had been murdered. I sobbed because he understood. Because he had helped me and I hurt him.

Rough lips pressed against my forehead. Sharp scruff tickled the suddenly sensitive skin. I froze. Not from the terrible fear that so often immobilized me; what was it? Shock? Disbelief? Trembling, I looked up at him. So much seemed to be said in that silence. And he kissed me. Just a tiny, fleeting caress. A quick gasp and he pulled back; gaze averted, jaw taunt. No; don't turn away from me. Shaking, my fingertips touched his chin. I was scared; yes, but I couldn't stand to see that hurt in his eyes. Hesitant, I returned his touch. His embrace tightened, but his kiss was never anything but gentle, tender; as though he knew how near to falling I was.

"Holmes," The door opened. As quickly as he parted from me, still a gasp sounded from the man now standing in doorway; mouth agape.

"Morning, Watson." Holmes greeted with a failed attempt at nonchalance.

"I'm, I'm… terribly sorry." He stuttered and nearly ran from the room. Holmes tried for only a second to maintain the silence before allowing his warm laughter to ripple through his chest.

"Why, I don't think I've ever seen him so flustered." He explained. I bit my lips as my cheeks flushed. And for a moment, the silence wavered over us. Finally, he flicked his eyes to mine. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that." My face burned scarlet, but I didn't turn from his gaze.

"I seem to recall kissing you back." I whispered. Almost in shock, he stared at me; taking in my words, digesting them. My heart fluttered. The distance between us slowly diminished. Someone shouted in the other room, but I paid it no mind as I tilted my chin slightly. Just a butterfly's breathe away.

Again the door opened, but this time with such force, I was certain it would shatter. Almost instantly, Holmes' was on his feet.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" He shouted.

"You. Out. Now." The women ordered.

"I seem to recall this being my room." He rebuked. My body cringed back. Yelling. Fighting. Angry.

"Now!"

"No!"

"So help me, Sherlock Holmes, if you don't leave this room this instant, I will beat you over the head and drag you out." He was silent a moment before he looked at me. I couldn't have hidden the terror from my face if I tried. His jaw tensed and he leaned toward me.

"She may seem scary," he whispered in my ear, "but she means well. I'll be just in the other room." Subtly, so the women wouldn't see, he touched his lips to my cheek and left, giving her a glare on his way. She sighed wearily once the door closed. I subconsciously gather the blankets around me as I looked at her. She seemed to age before my eyes; such a front she put on around Holmes; such exhaustion she hid. Still, she had a strength to her that I simply couldn't fear; a determination that fueled her every move. Her mind was strong, but her body possessed only the necessary strength for the everyday tasks of womankind. Even in such a state, I was certain of my ability to subdue her if the need arose.

"Dear me," she murmured, "I am sorry for that." I watched her carefully as she sat down in the chair still situated before the bed. "But I must speak with you… before things get out of hand." She seemed to struggle with her words. "You must understand, Holmes is… he's not like other men." She wet her lips and her hands moved absently. "You see, he's never opened himself to anyone before." Her discomfort stiffened the air. "I don't want him getting hurt." She finally admitted. I nearly laughed. She was asking me, who had been a prisoner in a sex scandal for nearly a year, not to hurt him.

"I am twenty-four years of age," My voice was rough, but understandable, "and I have told not a soul the things I have told him." There was a touch of insult to my words, though I meant to conceal it in a blank tone. "I have no intention of hurting that man." It shocked me how protective I sounded, but it seemed only to reassure her, for, with a nod, she left. Not a second later, Holmes returned with a glass of milk.

"Watson has threatened to feed you with a drip if you don't ingest something." He joked. My stomach churned, but I took the glass as he sat on the bed. Just a tiny sip, and my stomach convulsed in retaliation. Holding the milk far from me, I pressed my hand to my mouth and ground my teeth. A hand gently caressed my back and the glass was taken from me. With a shuddering breath, I opened my eyes. Though uneasy, I was again in control of my digestive system.

"A little at a time." He murmured and was silent a moment before adding, "Watson seems to think I've put you in a uncomfortable position. If this is the case"

"No," I interrupted, "Strange though it may sound, the only time I am uncomfortable is when you are not holding me." I could only whisper the words as my cheeks burned. A smirk touched his lips; almost affectionate.

"Then, by not holding you, I am causing you discomfort?" he ask in a joking manner. I met his gaze with a tiny smile and his arms immediately wrapped around me. My hand grasped his shirt and I hid my face in his warm chest.

"I didn't use to be like this." I whispered into the worn cloth. He said nothing as his fingers gently caressed the mangled flesh of my back. "Contempt was the only feeling I harbored towards men."

"And I to women." Holmes commented with a chuckled. "Their tendency to place exaggerated value on worthless things, while ignoring articles of the utmost importance confounds me. And I shall never understand the reasoning behind their motives."

"Nor I." I joked, earning a rich laugh from him. "One looks to men and finds drawling simplicity, and to women finds controversial perplexity bordering on chaos. And yet, always, the end goal is one of very few." He merely nodded with a chuckle.

"Holmes," I breathed after a moment of silence. He looked at me, but didn't pull back. "How" the words didn't want to come. They tried to catch in my throat and hide away. "How long?" I begged him to understand, because I couldn't finish the question. He sighed quietly.

"Fourteen months, approximately." Fourteen months. I had, indeed, lost over a year to that monstrous man. Stolen. He stole it from me.

"I will find him." He whispered with such strength, such certainty it sent a chill down my spine. I wanted to find him. I wanted to but a bullet in his head and watch his wretched brain paint the back wall. I wanted to find everyone, every doctor, every policemen, every clergymen, every judge that had taken part in such a horrid affair as that and bath them in acid.

"Holmes." Watson called from the other room. "Holmes, I must speak with you." A touch of annoyance brushed across his face, but was instantly devoured by the affection following it.

"You are more than welcome to entire, old friend." He called back.

"In private, if you please." He replied impatiently. Fret turned my blood to ice. What had he to say to Holmes, that he would not want me to hear? I was certain it was about the case. With a sigh, Holmes dismissed himself and left, promising to return shortly. For a moment, it was quiet, but the quiet was suddenly broken by an exclamation from Holmes. Without a second's pause, he reentered the room in a frenzy, almost blindly grabbing such things as a coat, a lock picking kit, a magnifying glass, and a few things I didn't have the chance to see clearly.

"I must leave for a time, but I shall return as soon as possible." He explained quickly. "Pray, stay in bed. If you should have need for anything, alert Mrs. Hudson and she'll care for you." Just before he left, he placed a quick kiss on my lips, as though such a thing was a long set routine. He had taken several steps before stopping suddenly and looking back at me, something like humorous confusion in his eyes. Finally, he scoffed and left.

As though he had told me in no uncertainty, I was certain a girl had been taken. The instant the front door closed, I was on my feet, however unsteady they proved to be. The room dipped beneath me, but, ignoring it, I made my way across the room to his dresser. I absolutely refused to simply lie in bed while that man continued the atrocities I was so terribly familiar with.

I opened the first drawer and my heart dropped. A silver revolver gleamed brilliantly atop the cloth. Watson surely had his service weapon, but Holmes was unarmed. With little thought, I adorned a pair of black pants, a dark grey shirt, and a navy blue vest. Several socks almost made my feet fit snuggly in a spare pair of his shoes. The clothes were baggy enough to mask my gender and, with a brown cloak, would provide warmth in the late-winter evening. With the pistol safely in my pocket, I took a walking stick that had been carelessly tossed in a corner, and headed toward the door.

With a sideways glance, I ground my teeth and forced the remainder of the milk down my gullet; knowing how desperately my body needed the nourishment. I was still for a long moment, until I was certain it would stay down, before leaving the room. As I reached the bottom step, I heard the door open above me, followed by a women's frustrated exclamation.


End file.
